So my husband went to New York on a ‘work trip’ to see the boxing. He left me with a fridge full of M&S pizzas and a jaunty high-five. I decided I’d have a better time than he did, just to spite him. It didn’t happen. He sent me a photo of him in a ‘titty-bar’ while I was doing a black and white jigsaw of a badger that my 80-year-friend betted I wouldn’t be able to finish. I told him ‘You are 80. You have trouble finishing a wee, I’ll get this done in a jiffer.’ It was harder than the nipples on the barista in the photo the husband sent me. Finding the nose was the highlight of my weekend, excluding the family sized trifle I ate at 2am after finally getting the children to sleep. Don’t you ever wonder what happened to yourself?
When, exactly, did my hobbies stop being going to gigs and wearing ‘lit’ designer trainers and turned into gardening, jigsaws and code-word puzzles in the paper? I’m only 36. What next, a weekly game of Bridge, bowling on the green? I still wear cool trainers, but I get them off eBay so someone else does the hard work of breaking them in. That’s how old I am.
The husband bought me back some Nike Jordans, which was very nice of him, but he didn’t read my book. It was the one thing I’d asked him to do. I said “All I want from you is for you to take the time to read my book. On the plane, or alone in the hotel room. It would mean so much to me, more than any gift could. Time is the most precious gift after-all.” I let him waffle on about Hooters and Boxing and the millions of commercials he watched on the TV, and the late-night walks he took through Times Sqaure, and then I asked him, oh so casually, what he thought of my book.
I already knew he hadn’t read it. I’m his wife, of course I knew. I know what he’s going to say before he does. When he opens the fridge, I pass him the cheese before he can ask me if we’ve run out.